Whitest Girl You Know

Translucent ruminations of a very pale girl.

Sunday, December 17, 2006


I was listening to the radio and saw the name of the band playing. I forget the full name but it had the word "dynamo" in it and I had a major flashback.

Remember a few months back when Sarah forwarded that email to me from the East Village Celebutant? I had the most difficult time remembering what we used to call her and her clique (which only lasted a year because she's such a crazy cunt). Michelle claims she vaguely remembers this girl and I'm not sure if she was around when I tagged this group "The Dynamos".

Yeah, the Dynamos. That's what we called these bunch of girls who dressed like an Express catalog and had cheap accessories and ugly shoes. They didn't think their shit stunk, thought they were smart (regardless, I was always smarter and obviously more humble) and were convinced that they were the height of fashion. A bunch of us used this term to refer to them. We's say it to other people and have to explain who they were. No one openly used it like they would in Heathers, always refering to the popular girls as the Heathers. It caught on in a bitchy, catty sort of way.

Last Night

I always start out writing these longish narratives about my drunken exploits. Because they get so lengthy, I usually have to save the post and come back to finish, which is when I think "Shut up!". So rather than boring you, which may be worse then when I don't post, I'm going to give the rundown of last nights events as I remember them.

My booking agent and her boyfriend came over.
We drank all the sake and champagne.
The consensus of my agency shares the same view on The One Upper.
The One Upper stopped by and got her mind blown, our booker actually mentions that she "one-upped" her by bring wine in a gift bag (our booker brought wine in a brown bag).
After TOU left, we discussed going to a party down the street.
We start playing a drinking game.
Josh leaves somewhere around now because it's no fun being the sober one during a drinking game.
I put on my pinstripe Stronghold shorts with suspenders.
A conversation/dare/joke/I don't remember results in me and my booker's boyfriend switching pants.
Hell begins to break loose in the form of I don't know what.
I put on sweatpants and go to hand back the pants when I see my booker wearing the shorts and her boyfriend in his boxers.
I went to go visit the porcelin gods for a bit.
Mike reports back to me that Alex is in the bathtub.
Around this time, I think my booker or her boyfriend step in Hugo's poop in the other bathroom.
They leave.
Mike is on vomit duty between me and Alex.
Mike puts Alex and I to bed.
Mike throws up.
We all wake up feeling awful.

In conclusion, although only 5 people ever came, I will deem this event as successful for now or at least until I speak to my booker tomorrow to make sure she doesn't think I'm crazy/hates me. I don't believe she does. And man, her drinking game saved the party. And resulted in a pant orgy.

Saturday, December 16, 2006

Live Blogging at My Party

Yeah, it's that exciting.

Josh was here before I came home from work. Alex came over about an hour ago. No one has called. My booker Lauryn was psyched to come. Hopefully Callie will come but she moved today. Even Melissa. And Ivy.

Between jokes about having an orgie and how bad that will suck for me (note to you guys: it'll suck more for you since it'll be a sausage party) and Mike stepping on the dog, I've been getting mean comments from everyone but Alex (who has not a mean bone in his body) including an "I told you so".

I tried. Now I'm going to go drown my sorrows in some Vueve.

My 5 Year Plan for Lindsay Lohan

I've been doing a lot of menial work the past few weeks. In between creating comic books with Callie and strategizing photoshoots, I figured out what Lindsay Lohan should do to win some credibility in the public eye.

She's been so big on AA, proving to the paps that she's only drinking VOSS (I wonder how much they're paying her, although I do believe VOSS is delicious water), and making vague references to conversations with Al Gore and the Clintons. There was also some talk (or crazy notes) about being a mouthpiece of her generation for change. Here's what I think she should do:

- wrap up whatever movies she's signed on for
- move back to the East Coast
- go to college (the Olsen's did it)
- keep a low profile (Natalie Portman did it and I guess Ashley Olsen has been relatively successful at this, at least in terms of her presence on the NYU campus)
- maybe do a movie during summer break
- graduate and prove that you're more than a coochie-flashing AA meeting attendee

I think people would take her more seriously that way. I wouldn't necessarily suggest this to someone like Scarlett Johanssen who is a great actress and more or less in good movies. Britney Spears however... I won't even touch that.

My Cat Only Loves Me On the Toilet

No matter what time of day, whether I'm actually using it or just sitting on it, Grissom wants to love me when I'm on the toilet. It's the weirdest thing. It's one thing when he shares my pillow or climbs under the blanket with me, but this is a whole new kind of love. Hugs and kisses and snuggles. It's disgustingly cute. Why can't it happen on the couch?

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

Baby Jesus to Celebrate the Festival of Lights at My House

This Saturday I invite all of my Boston-based friends (and if those from afar want to come, please do, but I know it's a long shot) to come on by my place for a Christmakkuh shindig.

Mike & I keep it on the Judeo-Christian tip this time of year for the kids. Call time is around 7 or 8. Don't bring people who will tease my dog, steal my cat or knock down Mike's menorah.

Hehe, I got some stories about menorahs being knocked down (not by me, of course)!

Happy Birthday, Pats!

Tis the season for some birthdays!

Thursday is my dear friend Patty's birthday. She's 21! Yay Pats!

Do you want me to write you a bday rap too? I didn't only because I'm turning into a one-trick rap/wrapping pony.

Happy Belated Birthday, Tommy!

Mr Rebel celebrated his birthday in his beloved Brooklyn on December 9th. Via email, Tommy requested that I write him a rap for his bday. Here it goes:

I've been afraid to sign on to my blog/
Because I don't want you to call me a dog/
Since my mind is in a fog/
And I can't think of what rhymes with sneaker.

Anyway, Tommy is the best/
He loves to take pics of girls' chests/
Down in the Brooklyn Basement is his nest/
And I still can't think of what rhymes with sneaker.

Oh Tom-my/
How I miss you/
And the things that you do/
Because I moved.

Oh Tom-my/
How I miss you/
And your sneakers colored blue/
and red and orange and purple and yellow and pink and green and black and white and brown.

Miss your face Tommy Holiday! I'm wearing my Colgate TerraHumaras on your behalf.

Friday, December 08, 2006

4 Years Ago Today...Or Was It Yesterday? (Part 2)

I go to see Michelle and Sam at work, looking tofind something to wear for the "premiere" of my sociopath roommate's first "movie". Jokes flew around about Adidas being the headquarters of my fan club. Mike was also working and started asking around if anyone wanted to join his fan club. I was the only one who said yes (now I'm President & CEO). He did a little breakdance move for me and asked me if I'd marry him. I'd have to convert. We plan out our in-store wedding and he informs me that he has to now take me on a date to see what he's getting himself into.

You've all heard it before. Long story short, I get drunk, we make out, I sleep over. We go on our "date" and Mike proceeds to give me a concusion shortly after. More or less, it's been love ever since and now I live in Boston with a dog and a cat and a store soon enough. Yay love!

I Never Said I Was A Meteorologist

A week ago today it was 70 degrees. Today it was 18. It snowed on Monday and it flurried as I was driving to work this morning. So much for a northwestern winter.

Stay warm!

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

A Wrap For My Boo OR "Tina Is A Cougar"

My style soulmate and creative partner in crime, Sarah Shirley's birthday just passed on Monday. My head has been elsewhere, leading me to think her birthday was the day before and neglecting to write her/leave her a voicemail with a birthday rap on it. This started on my birthday this year when Sarah left a lengthy and humorous rap about my date of birth on my voicemail (or perhaps in an email). To return the bday favor, here is a "wrap" for my boo. Please excuse my corniness, it's an elaborate inside joke within an inside joke.

Tina Is A Cougar

(I paid Pharrell $50,000 to do the beat for this. The check hasn't cleared yet, which means he's too busy modeling for LV or hanging out with Luda. Please use your imagination.)

You might know her as "Tina"/
Everytime your see her/
she looks a bit lean-ah./
The boys like to/
make her scream like Xena./
But if she can't get off/
she gets a little bit mean-ah.

Hold her gold/
her ice is cold./
Let her mold/
do what your told.

CHORUS (sung by P. Williams)
Skateboard P wants to see that booty round/
so I can drop that Neptunes sound/
and watch you bring it all the way down.

Boys watch her in the morning/
on the tele./
But they don't interrupt her/
by calling on the cellie/
'cause she'll piss off/
Regis & Kelly.

Win her heart by taking her on/
a surf day./
And those who play/
on her turf say/

Repeat Chorus

I love you Tina! Happy belated birthday!

Make Out Queen to Break Out Queen

A few years ago, my friend Tommy Rebel gave me the nickname of Make Out Queen. No comment. Sadly, these days I've become the Break Out Queen. It's like puberty. I have Pompeii on my forehead (which isn't covered by my hair), moon craters on my cheeks, a strawberry kiss on my cheekbone and zits around my nose and chin. I'm disgusting.

I noticed that it got worse today while catching my reflection at the register in Tiffanys. While holiday shopping at another store, Mike asks if I had a stressful day because, he announced, I was breaking out. I don't know if this has to do with the fact that my new haircut involves my hair in my face a lot, my shitty work environment (no sun, lots of dirt) or hormones (I hope not).

This post is brought to you by Keihl's Algae Mask, which is basking on my face, hopefully detoxifying my pores as I write this.

Locked Away

I've been trapped in a studio found in the back of a warehouse 20 miles south of Boston for almost 2 weeks now. I've been burning myself and getting unsolicited lessons on how to be a stylist from The One-Upper. Yes, I'm assisting The One-Upper.

Thank God that my fellow assistant Callista is there to help take the edge off. Some golden nuggets of knowledge by TOU about working "your first styling job" (note: my first lead styling job was for Marie Claire Latin America when I was 21): you can't iron things flat (why make it hard on yourself?), don't put felt in shirts when you fold them because they are hard to work on set (untrue), put felt in shirts when doing a laydown (duh), don't stack shirts that aren't being shot that way (who cares!).

Needless to say, Callista and I have been bonding over such sound advice. Meanwhile, TOU is stressed beyond belief because she isn't as experienced as she thinks and the client learned this quick. There are no jobs in the metro Boston area that she could get as a lead that I would be envious of. I have zero desire to be a professional towel folder or catalog stylist.

As mean as we are, we sympathize for her. Although quick jabs are thrown here and there and more useless rules or ways to do things are told, we're getting soft on her. The poor thing is getting stuck with pain in the ass shots that are being ruled with the iron fist of an unorganized and picky art director. However, if I have to be shown how to iron a collar one more time, I might lose it.