It Was Entertaining in a Very Specific Way

For a pretty much unedited look at Pookie's birthday weekend, you can hit up Flickr and check the set. But I'm giving you my five favorite photos below!


The now traditional event photo with "Fran," if that is in fact his real name.


Really, this photo tells you everything you need to know about mine and Pookie's relationship.


There is only one word for this photo. And that word is "M.A.N.L.Y"


Joey V is like an arrow in motion to the speakeasy.


We call this our "sitcom" photo, because it's the kind of photo that happens at the end of the intro credits to any sitcom with an ensemble cast...you know, how at the end of the credits the cast of friends or family all tumbles gleefully onto a couch where they smile about their wacky lives that always end perfectly happily? That's this photo.

 

Six Pictures of Home

 

Olive Or Twist?

That's the actual name of the bar Candy and I went to on Tuesday night. Get it? Clever, isn't it? Candy and I were very happy to spend time together. See how happy we were?



At "Olive or Twist", we had girl time and fantastic conversation. I also drank several of these:



And then, while I was not drunk enough to throw up in it, I was drunk enough to dance like an idiot around my favorite flower pot. The flower pot outside of the bar in the Renaissance on Sixth Street in the Cultural District. For those who are in on the story, I've thrown up in this flower pot while babbling incoherently about my "feelings" and "confusion" and "insecurity" while moon, my brother and charms94 all stood there. Staring. Amused. Confused. Drunk. Take your pick. Here you go boys! A very special picture with a very special flower pot, just for you! That flower pot will always have a space in my heart. Even when my heart is flooded with vodka.

 

Welcome to the California Hill Gun Club

An online, day-late 30th birthday card for Pookie.

How to rock it, kicking ass 24/7, for 30 years. Pookie-style.

April, 1977: Get born somewhere where the sign pictured below exists within a mile of your house. A place where people take their guns so seriously that they create signs like this. Signs that imply that the deer are enjoying this activity, too.


Next meet your big sister. She will love you no matter what. Even when "what" is you saying "Just let me check something super quickly on your laptop" and then still sitting there with the laptop 15 minutes later posting things on message boards while her head explodes on the inside. You will love her no matter what, too. Even when "what" is the Christmas she decided it would be cool to wear temporary tattoos on her forehead all week long.


Circa 1980: Get used to passing out in your underwear.


Circal 1983: Embrace acrobatics class that mom makes you take. Rock the one-shoulder, spandex tiger print. Fashion never looked so good pre-bedazzler.


Circa 1984: You are cute and blond and proud to be an American. I only wish we still had that track suit you have on in that school picture.


Circa 1987: Embrace Miami Vice, yo. Enjoy the loafers with no socks and the pegged pants. And hair gel.


Circa 1992: Determine that you will be a rock star. LIVE IT.



June 1995: Graduate from the illustrious California Area High School. Give a valedictorian speech that stresses the need for tolerance and diversity. Run in fear after that speech from the people with guns. Hey! Isn't that Ferris behind you and to the left????


Circa 1996: REALLY get intimate with your surroundings on a trip to West Virginia with Ferris and Jos where you stop at every single truck stop on the way and interview the guy working the graveyard shift. Wish you weren't all college poor so you could actually afford those t-shirts.


Circa 1998: Give up on being a rock star and decide to be a princess instead. No, actually, decide on rock star AND princess.


Circa 2000: Take your first trip to San Francisco. Jocelyn will take this picture of you, hoping that it will someday become your first album cover.


Circa 2002: Really internalize the Budd Grebb philosophy of "Play now and pay later, or pay now and play later."


Circa 2003: Learn to love your own nipple. Passionately.


Spring 2005: Rock Peru, FERNANDO STYLE.


August 2005: Rock Hawaii, rich folk style.


April 25, 2007: Turn 30. Wow. Spend the first half of the night turning thirty at dinner with your parents and your sister.



Spend the second half of the night with Ferris and Jos, the only two people other than your parents who have literally known you your entire life. Drink champagne out of vintage Star Wars cups and watch Ryan Seacrest host the coming of the four horsemen.



I love you always Pookalicious. Even when I have PMS. Even when you forget to call me back. Even when you explain why none of my political beliefs are valid. Even when you won't stop talking. Even when you can't remember what dishwasher soap to use. Even when you make me crazy. But especially when we're driving in a car on backroads in Western Pennsylvania with the radio on and the windows open.
-jos

 

48 Hours in The Life

This entry is also subtitled: Hott Scott Likes to Fog Off with his Fistfull of Cockney

Saturday, April 21st, 4:45am: The alarm clock goes off. My response? "Fuck.Me."

Saturday, April 21st, 6:45am: Yep. It's cold. Hott Scott and I are in the starting area for the Salt Lake City marathon. It's cold, but it's beautiful. It's too early for sunlight, and there's a pretty bridge and a huge ass mountain range that's still purple from the night with white snow caps in front of us. There's a childrens' choir dressed in white robes. There are some pimp ass Kenyans jogging down to the starting line two minutes before the gun goes off like they're too good to wait out in the cold with the rest of us. And honestly, they're too good to wait out in the cold with the rest of us. 6:45 am people.

(Hours of running and the following phrase ensue: "Fuck me. That CANNOT be another two mile stretch of gradual uphill running in front of me. That is SO NOT what the elevation map and promo material for this course made it sound like.")

Here are some pictures from SLC marathon weekend for you. Dear Scott and Kari: I live for your love. Every day. Every minute.






Saturday, April 21st, 1:00pm: Arrive back at hotel and take half hour nap.

Saturday April 21st: 1:30pm: Take ice cold bath hoping that the ice down will help alleviate not just your general marathon pain, but also the pain that's about to be caused by the stupid, stupid thing you're about to do.

Saturday, April 21st: 4:00pm: Depart on a plane from SLC to Vegas to hop another plane to Pittsburgh. Say this to somebody while talking on the phone before the plane takes off. "Yeah, you know, I'm pretty naseous from the running. There's at least a 50% chance that I'm going to throw up on this flight."

Saturday: April 21st: 5:00pm: Enjoy your lay over in Vegas. Pick up a voicemail from Pookie asking when you get in and what the plan is. Leave this message on his voicemail:

Me
I'm in Vegas on a fucking layover on my way to you. You know what? There's a reason why you're not supposed to finish a marathon, take a nap and get on a plane. I'm in excruciating fucking pain. I cannot even describe it. I am cranky as fuck. I get in at 1am and I'm going to Tyler's baptism in the morning. We're having family dinner at the house that night. You should come. I have to go. Arghhhhhhh.

Pookie will then play that message on speaker for J. And J will say the following: "Your sister is amazing. Does she always do amazing things like that?"

And Pookie will say the following: "Jos doesn't do amazing things. Jos IS amazing. Jos always says, 'Why do it, when you can BE it?"

Now, if you just read that sentence, you would think that my baby brother thinks I'm awesome and gushes over me. But when you read it, you don't hear the four inches of sugary sarcasm icing on tip of the words. Pookie has had 30 (!) years of dealing with my constant quest to kick ass, and he's amply equipped to mock my inability to turn it off. So if you KNOW me and you KNOW Pookie, then that quote is funny. Otherwise, you're probably not so much getting it.

Sunday, April 22nd, 2:30am: Finally roll out of the Pittsburgh airport after a flight where it was too cold for you to sleep on the plane and having to stand in line at Hertz for over half an hour behind the customer from HELL.

Sunday, April 22nd, 3:30am: Arrive at your parents' house. Realize that you need to wake up in 3.5 hours. Say it again. "Fuck.Me."

Sunday, April 22nd, 7:30am: Wake up half an hour late.

Sunday: April 22nd, 9:10am: Arrive at church ten minutes late dressed like Strawberry Shortcake and have to endure the disapproving looks of the octagenarians as you stroll down the aisle during worship. Have Candy have to explain the whole baptism ceremony to you in whispers in between prayers. Your favorite moment though? You pick up the prayer booklet and start praying along to participate in the worship service because you are a guest in this House of the Lord. AND CANDY LAUGHS OUT LOUD AT YOU WHEN YOU DO IT.

Tyler is a stunningly beautiful baby.

Sunday, April 22nd, 11:00am: Attend Tyler's welcoming brunch. Mention this specifically because your favorite moment with Tyler's father, Wing Man, happens at brunch. You are sitting with Wing Man's Brother and Wing Man's Brother's Girlfriend. The brunch food comes out, but nobody has started eating yet.

Wing Man
Get up and go eat guys.

Wing Man's Brother's Girlfriend
The old people should eat frist.

Wing Man
They know better.

Yep! And also, I have found a new food to love that's Pittsburgh-centric. They're called "Three Rivers Potatoes" and they're cheesy potatoes with a layer of potato chips on top. We know how to eat here.

Here are pictures from the Baptism. Candy makes beautiful babies. I, personally, enjoy the photo of Tyler and I where I look about as Roma as Roma can be. It's like I just jumped off of the gypsy train and offered to read your palm and dance for you with ankle bracelets on.






Sunday, April 22nd, 2:00pm: Stop to have lunch with Glory Days. Enjoy this exchange.

Me
I love my thirties so much more than my twenties. My thirties are like an entirely different, better life.

Glory Days
My thirties pretty much still feel like my twenties to me.

Me
You live with your parents, dude.

Sunday, April 22nd, 3:00pm: Finally arrive home. Alternate the rest of the day between napping and eating and talking to Pook, your mom and your 84 year old neighbor who wants to talk about Viagra.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is 48 hours in the life. This trip is going to be great. I can feel it.

 

Defective Merchandise!

Firstly, we're in Salt Lake City today getting ready for Saturday's race. It's beautiful here. Like, stunningly beautiful. I think it'll be a great run by default of feeling inspired by all of the beautiful mountains. It's a little colder than I'd like for it to be, but I have lots of disposable running gear with me. It's 5:oopm right now, and I'm like, "I need to be in bed in three more hours max so I can get up and jog and do some yoga in the morning." If I can just adjust my sleep cycle in that one day, I think I'll be fine.

But on to the defective merchandise!

So, ChriSS was here for a conference last week. And we had dinner on Sunday, during which as we were swapping stories we talked about, what else, me and boys and babies. And then we had drinks again on Wednesday night. By Wednesday night, ChriSS had had lots of time to think about my issues with boys and babies, and this was the conversation.

ChriSS
You're a marketer. You have professional marketing training.

Me
Yes.

ChriSS
I think we should look at your issues with boys and babies and apply your marketing skills to it.

Me
Oh.My.God.

ChriSS
Because if you read your blog, it sounds like you just want a baby making machine. And then the other night, we were in The Burger Bar, and you literally had drool coming out of your mouth over the tattoo guy. And neither of these things, well, you see my point. So I think you're dealing with defective merchandise.

Me
Uh...uh...uh...WHAT?

ChriSS
Not you! No! You're perfect!

Me
Uh

ChriSS
I mean, at least in your own world you're perfect.

Me
Uh

ChriSS
I mean, everybody's perfect in their own world. I'm saying that the defective merchandise is the men you get involved with.

Me
Uh

ChriSS
Let's define what you need in a perfect man. Let's define the product that you're looking for.

And so, we define my perfect man. Who of course is NOTHING like any of the last five to ten men I've been involved with. And so, as I rapidly order a second drink because I'm going into panic over various realizations, we continue.

ChriSS
So, you've been dating men who are NOTHING like what we've just defined.

Me
mumble. mumble, mumble, mumble

ChriSS
And we meet these men...

Me
mumble, bar, mumble, club, mumble, girls' night out

ChriSS
Do you have a gym membership?

Me
Of course.

ChriSS
Since athleticism and understanding athleticism is very important to you, do you meet men at the gym?

Me
I mean, the thing is that I spend all day and most of the evening interfacing with people, and that two hours a day at the gym, that's kind of my personal "Jocelyn time" and...

ChriSS
THAT EXCUSE IS NO GOOD. If you want to meet a man who's appropriate for you, you need to put the time and effort in.

Me
mumble, you're right, mumble

ChriSS
You should do one of those executive masters programs that's overseas, like in Paris or somewhere like that. You'd meet a man who closely resembles your perfect model of a partner for you there. Lives in a big picture world. Travel friendly. Probably athletic because most business types are. Smart. Probably makes more money than you. Probably has a stronger personality than you. Spiritual? That would be up in the air. Optimistic? You don't do an international business program if you're not basically optimistic, do you? Highly social? Probably for sure.

And then there is silence as we stare at each other.

ChriSS
I guess we've gotten a little ridiculous if we're sitting here saying you should spend thousands of dollars on advanced education in an international location just to find a husband?

Me
No, this has been great. I feel like I should pay you $200 for an hour of therapy. But instead I'm just going to buy that glass of wine for you.

And so, I get it. I should cut and burn faster when I realize that I can't get what I want. And I should look for boys in appropriate places, rather than at The Burger Bar because he has a hot tattoo and good biceps. And I'd like to thank ChriSS for calling it like he saw it. I can appreciate that. And I can take it and apply it. And so, we'll see how that goes!

 

This is actually happening real time in my staff meeting right now.

Burgh Marc
Matty is hot. We really need to ride him right now.

Ry & I
(duck heads under table. laugh like 12 year old boys. snicker)
Ride him hard. Ha ha ha ha.

Burgh Marc
We can make some money if we really just pound on him.

Ry & I
(duck heads under table. laugh like 12 year old boys. snicker)
Pound on him. Ha ha ha ha.

Burgh Marc
Is there a marketing strategy in place?

Me
Yeah, we'll going to put a CRM email campaign together today. We'll going to ride Matty hard for some cash.

Ry
(laughs so hard he snots into his coffee)

Me
I'm excited.

Ry
Should be be trickling one pick a day, or should he just EXPLODE with one big one?

And this is still going on. Ry and I are acting like adolescent boys.

 

Best News EVER

shamus just booked a ticket to come to PA for Pookie's birthday. I'M SO FUCKING HAPPY I COULD EXPLODE! IT'S GOING TO BE THE BEST TWO DAYS OF PARTYING SINCE THE LAST TWO DAYS OF PARTYING!

 

Five Insomniac Thoughts to Kick Off Monday With

1. Maria Taylor is a Goddess: 11:11 is one of my favorite albums. It's one of those albums that I've kept coming back to over the last two years. So I was kind of bumming when people who had listened to Lynn Teeter Flower were all like, "Yeah, it's no 11:11." And then I was like, "Well, it could just be that there's not a lot of room for Maria Taylor and Brandi Carlile to exist at that same time, and that Brandi Carlile album is fantastic (though if you really want to hear her at her best, download her live version of "Hallelujah"). Anyway, so I finally downloaded Lynn Teeter Flower this weekend. And it's no 11:11, but it is fantastic. The tracks you won't care about, you'll flip through those pretty quickly. But there are five tracks on there that are so fucking beautiful that you won't know what to do with them. "My Own Fault" is my favorite right now, maybe because it resonates with where I am. "Small Part of Me" and "No Stars" are also, well, they'll move you. However, "Lost Time" and "Clean Getaway" are the single most fucking beautiful things you'll hear this year (though you have to stay with "Clean Getaway", it builds on itself and then it rips your heart out in the last couple of bars). Conveniently, you can listen to those last two on Maria's MySpace page. And also, we'll be doing two poetry meditations this week. The first are the bridge lyrics from "Lost Time."

And a heart that grieves
Gets lost in everything
And a heart in need
Finds hope in anything

2. Speaking of MySpace: I'd like to thank MySpace for reconnecting me with 500 million people I went to high school with. And I'd like to thank Chris for dinner. I was cool with it until you pointed out that we hadn't actually seen each other in 17 years. It was a great time. Let's do it again this week.

3. Here's What's Not Going to Happen: I'm just going to get this out of the way because I know that you read this (with you being a specific person). I'm not going to apologize for hurting your feelings. I didn't say anything maliciously. I was gentle. I'm sorry you're not getting what you want. I'm sorry you hurt. But when you back people into corners saying things like "I need you to feel this way," you're going to get one of two things. a)A lie that will blow up and hurt you worse later or b)the truth, which more times than not will not be what you wanted to hear. I'm not going to get bullied into feeling something that I don't just because it's what you "need." You need less than you think, honestly. That email was mean and nasty and uncalled for, and you're getting a response here instead of via email because I REFUSE to engage in that emotionally manipulative kind of scenario with you. All I did was say "That's not the right decision for me making me happy." Seriously, I can't believe you have the audacity to say you expect an apology. I'm not apologizing for making good decisions for me. WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE? WHY IS EVERYBODY SO FUCKED UP LATELY?

4. Pennsylvania! I have never looked forward to a week at home more than I'm looking forward to this one. Sangria and Sanjaya. Beer and cocktails. Pookie's 30th. Tyler. Maybe spring will even break. And a little more time to play than I was anticipating. Yes. Very exciting. I want coffee with PDG and beer and cocktails with Bill and Sangria with Candy and lots of time with Pook and Ferris and Dana and my mom. And playtime with Red Delicious' kids. And long runs on backroads. And higher end cocktails with moon. And a Pirates game, and mabye a Pens game if I get lucky. I want ridiculous pictures of Joey V. and those other crazy boys. I want tea with Big T. I want to go to my grandfather's grave and talk to him for a while because I've felt a little lost lately. I want to hang out with Doreen and my mom and wonder if that's what Catwoman and I will be like at their age. I want to feel home for a little bit. You don't really feel home when you're there over the holidays because there's so much to do. Yeah, I'm looking forward to this.

5. And, a poetry mediation for the week: I own a book of Anna Akhmatova poetry, and it's some of my favorite ever. In fact, "The Door is Half Open" is one of my favorites of my favorites, and last week it was a featured poem by Knopf, so I thought we'd all start the week with it:

The door is half open,
The sweet smell of limes . . .
On the table, forgotten,
A whip and a glove.

The lamp's yellow glow . . .
Things rustle all round.
Why did you go?
I don't understand.

More clearly I'll see
Tomorrow with fresh eyes
That life is beautiful.
Heart, just be wise.

You're completely worn out--
Beating sluggishly . . .
You know, I read somewhere
That souls do not die.

 

Three Conversations: This Time ALL REAL

But I Have MySpace!
The first of the key IM conversations happens with Ferris. You may think we are both smart, articulate people, but we spent an hour on Wednesday IMing about Jennifer Lopez and Sanjaya Malakar. And then this happened.

Ferris
What were our parents doing at our age?

Me
My mom was pregnant with Pookie when she was my age.

(pause)

Me
Yep. Pretty much at my age my mother had babies, and I have ... MySpace.

(And for the record, this exchange is much funnier if you could hear Ferris' response, but I pretty sure it's not approved for posting.)

GO DEVILS.
I have a friend (or many, but this is in reference to one specific one). We don't speak all that often, but I adore him. I'm not about to stroke his ego and list the specific things that I adore about him, but to understand what happens next you need to understand that one of the things that I adore about him is the dynamic he provides me with. So the thing about him is that he can push my buttons in .004 seconds flat. Often, he does it entirely unintentionally. Sometimes, he does it to amuse himself. Sometimes, he actually gets me worked up and defensive about things we share the same opinion on. Rarely, but not never, he does it and then stifles a smirk as I go into hyper mode and sound like this: "What are you saying? What are you saying? What are you saying? I can't believe you just said that. But, but, but..." Other people, people who are related to me, people who have dated me, have all commented the following, "Man, he can push your buttons faster than anybody I've ever seen."

And here is the kicker. Many people would describe me as a button pusher myself. But this particular person seems to be impervious to my efforts to get him worked up. I throw things out there to try and prod at him, and it's like I'm throwing a big foam softball that he takes a whack at with a tennis racket and it comes back and hits me in the face and suddenly I'm all like "What are you saying? What are you saying? What are you saying? I can't believe you just said that. But, but, but..." And I have always appreciated about this person that my attempts to push at buttons roll off his shoulders and yet, somehow, he can get a reaction out of me by giving me a sideways look. I appreciate the change up in my daily dynamic.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday, I am eating a burrito and doing my taxes and I look at my Gmail Chat and notice that said person has changed his status indicator to cheer for the New Jersey Devils, in almost direct contrast to my Gmail Chat status indicator that was rallying for the Pens. And yes, yes, this is a discussion of an event that was launched by status indicators in Gmail Chat. And so I change my status indicator to tell him to live in the now with the team of the future, and he changes his to remind me that only one of those two hockey teams "knows how to win championships." And I'm all like, "That's so cute. He felt like playing via Gmail Chat." And I go back to eating my burrito and being horrified at how many line items on my 2006 credit card statements are literally for slurpees from 7-11. And then...

The chat window opens, and paragraphs, PARAGRAPHS, start rolling in about the New Jersey Devils and their apparent superiority over all other NHL teams, EVER. I am so shocked by the deluge of PARAGRAPHS of impassioned Devils adoration that I actually slide my chair back from my desk in physical shock. Holding my burrito in one hand and my 1099 itemized sheet in the other, I occasionally begin to slide my chair back towards the desk to hazard a response, but as soon as I do, there is another PARAGRAPH about how the NHL changed the rules to try to bring the Devils down and the Devils still kept on winning, or about how they're a true team and not a bunch of individuals, or how they have the greatest goalie to ever play the game (Uh, Patrick Waugh, anybody?) ... and more! And it just kept going! The paragraphs came so quickly I couldn't even keep up with reading them. And, I have to say, I know this person to have great passion, but I have never seen him express such deep passion as he did for the New Jersey Devils during this IM exchange.

And for a moment, I am...triumphant! That's right. Three years later, I manage to push a button that causes him to stop in the middle of his work day and set me straight about my misguided hockey beliefs. In my head, as I was carefully sliding my chair back towards my desk, waiting to see what would happen next, I envisioned what this must look like. What joy I would see if I were able to be in two places at once and watch this go down. His furiously fast typing into the tiny Gmail chat box while hunched over the keyboard in the midst of fiery emotion. Red laser beams shooting out from behind very sexy, thin-rimmed intellectual glasses. Quickened breathing. A half-eaten take-out container of nachos abandoned while he ferociously puts me in my place about the special place in hockey hierarchy that the New Jersey Devils have reserved for them.

AND EVEN IF THAT IS NOT HOW IT WAS, YOU WILL LET ME HAVE THIS ONE. YOU HAVE DESTROYED ENOUGH ILLUSIONS FOR ME. LET ME HAVE THIS.

I'm going into the neutral corner for now. Go Sharks.

And, finally, this sexiness

DCWP
I'm currently at the Midwest Political Science Association's annual meeting.

Me
I can't think of anything that sounds like a sexier gathering than the Midwest Political Science Association's annual meeting. I need to go shower about now just to cool down.

DCWP
If i told you the title of my paper was "BRAC ATTACK: The Politics of Military Base Closings" would that make you even hotter?

Me
I'm quite sure I wouldn't even be able to handle it. Now go find me a nice academic husband while you're there. Somebody whose paper is on something unbearably sexy like the politics of agricultural subsidies or re-inventing voting laws though a return to town hall meetings.

 

I am the most boring girl in the world this week.

Of course we all hate it when I get busy at work and busy with running and busy getting ready to go on vacation and there are no stories to tell. Summer is supposed to be about stories, right? I have no stories this week. The extent of the excitement that's rolling right now is that Candy is texting me during the east coast feed of American Idol to warn me about tonight's Besame Mucho experience.

What to write about...

Yep. Well, I pretty much have nothing. You know, but to keep you coming back, I'll tease what's coming up that may or may not interest you.

- That marathon I'm running is in Salt Lake City. How can there not be Mormon stories?

- I've been going out on some dates with this absurdly cute boy, and it's making me think about the fact that I really can be shallow and superficial sometimes. I may want to, you know, dissect that a little bit, because it's not how I would describe myself if you asked, but it apparently does exist in me because there have been several times in this experience where I've said, "Yeah, there's that, but he's so hot. Do we really care?"

- I'm spending a week in PA. I've been warned (also by Candy) that if the Pens are still in the playoffs at that point that the streets will be lined with burly, hockey-playing boys who will hit on me shamelessly while I'm getting gas in my sweats. That's her quote. That's what she said. I'm not sure that I'll be hitting up the gas station in sweats just to get a date, but you never know. I might do it just for the sake of a story. I might feel a RESPONSIBILITY to do it for the sake of the story.

- Speaking of that week in PA, Pookie is turning 30 and I am looking for something even more ridiculous than those skanky red snakeskin ho boots to wear to that party. Let me know if you have any ideas.

- You know what it is? I've actually been writing a lot of poetry lately. And I do not mean drunku. And that leaves me a little less inspired to write here unless there is an obvious story to tell. But fortunately, vacation coming! Stories coming!

 

10 Open Letters on Monday

Dear Rob Lowe,

When Dr. Vegas and whatever that other show was failed, I can see why you and yours felt that the best option was to return to your bread and butter and play a politician with a dilemma over his high moral standards on Brothers and Sisters. This time, though, with Calista Flockhart at her finest to banter with you. And honestly? I think Calista is better than Richard Schiff, but that's just me. Whatever. You're still impossibly hot.

xo,
jocelyn

Dear Las Vegas Athletic Club,

Sure, I agree that we needed a speed bump at the 215 and Eastern club, but did we really need one that's so big that I have to come to a dead stop just to roll over it? Really.

xo,
jocelyn

Dear Overly Assertive Boy from Tao,

It's not that you weren't cute. It's that I was tired and drunk. And my shoes, while hot as hell, were killing me. I'm not saying, I'm just saying. And what I'm saying is that some nights we all strike out.

xo,
jocelyn

Dear Irish Tim,

We get it. It's "Mc," not "Mac." It just made me think you were all the more adorable, so there.

xo,
jocelyn

Dear shimmy,

I regret that my camera batteries were dead during your finest moment to date when we returned to the room after your dinner. Miss you already.

xo,
jocelyn

Dear Bartender at Centrifuge,

That was a weak-ass drink. I can't believe you charged me $9 for it.

xo,
jocelyn

Dear Hott Scott,

Thank you. Next time we toast, we will now use our new phrase which I will not repeat here for fear of hurting somebody's feelings.

xo,
jocelyn

Dear Cingular,

You suck.

xo,
jocelyn

Dear Insomnia,

Are we really going to roll like this? It's 4:30am. I might as well just get up and go to work. Bitch.

xo,
jocelyn

Dear Pookie,

People would like to know what night we are celebrating your birthday.

xo,
jocelyn

 

Wait - Three More Weekend Thoughts

Form Over Function, Function Over Form
Also subtitled: Phone Drama Continues

I have often in my life been known to choose things that look pretty over things that work well. My cell phone is an example of that. Oh, I know, and knew before I bought it, that the pink RAZR phones had tons of problems. But they were so cute. And I am cute! This is an actual conversation I had with Luca yesterday.

Luca
Your phone is still broken? You KNOW the RAZRS have problems. Why did you get one?

Me
It was pink.

Luca
Let me guess. You have clothes and purses you bought just to match your phone.

Me
And a matching iPod. And lots of matching sunglasses.

Luca
Of course you do. Of course you do.

Me
Kisses!

And so my warranty replacement phone finally arrives yesterday - AND IT IS DEFECTIVE. It doesn't pick up my voice. If you are a 200 lb man with a booming voice, the phone picks you up just fine. If you are 110 lb girl with a girl voice, no bueno. But did I upgrade my phone? Nope! Insisted on a RAZR so I could stay pink. I suggest texting for the weekend if you need to get in touch with me.

Don't Be Calling My Mary-Kate, Ya'll
So, Ryan posted those pictures of me in Long Beach over on MySpace and I do look really thin in them, and there was also talk of this picture where I'm the first to admit that I look a tad bit Ethiopian. And this has led to a rash of emails from folks telling me I look too skinny. So I just want to put that to bed. I'm running a marathon in two weeks (yikes!) and I get really skinny when I distance run that much. I don't weigh a lot right now, it's true. Please believe me that I'll bounce back up to a healthy 125 or so after this race. Maybe even 130 if I give into the PMS temptation of pizza. I miss my boobs, too. But at least my hips will never, ever go away! Don't stress. It's just that it's race season.

You Clearly Have Me Confused with Somebody Else
This is an actual part of an actual conversation discussing an actual relationship I was once in.

Him
You know what I loved about our relationship? That you and I were both looking forward to the part where we got tired of sex because it meant that we were moving to a higher ground.

Me
(Looks around in confusion. Makes confused face. Squints.)
Are you sure you don't have me confused with one of your other ex-girlfriends?

And then, later...

Him
You know, I always felt like it wasn't fair because you keep your body in such amazing shape, and I wasn't giving that back to you, though it never mattered to you.

Me
(Looks around in confusion. Makes confused face. Squints.)
That wasn't me. That was somebody else. I was the one who told you that if you gained any more weight we'd start running into a problem. Do you remember our relationship at all?

I mean, it's kind of like I felt like there were moments when we were talking about two different relationships. But that kind of not being on the same page, that may be where some of our problems were, right? People say things, and other people interpret them to be what they wanted to hear. And I love this person I was talking to, but this person does that a lot.

There, those were three better thoughts than the first one.

 

Five Thoughts to End the Week With

1. Wrapping Up Melrose Place: Do you suppose that when Darren Star was putting Melrose Place together, there was a part during the writing session where he and the other writers were just like "Okay, now we need to go through the script and find ANY MOMENT POSSIBLE where Grant Show can appear shirtless?"

Not that I'm not thanking them for that.

2. I like American cars: If you check out the comments section on my MySpace page, Ryan has left the most delightful pictures of me fucking up some Toyota property. Good times.

3. Drunku: This weekend, we are speaking in drunku, which if you aren't following, is poetry in seven, five, seven schema. Right on.

4. This weekend: Pool at Mandalay Bay, dinner party and wine tasting and then hitting Grand Prix parties on the strip. And that's Friday. Saturday...more, worse. Apparently party season has hit.

5. And on a calmer note: Here's your poetry meditation for the weekend. From D. Nurkse, a reflection on broken marriages, which has been a hot topic for the last week or so:

Separation at Burnt Island

Brothers and sisters, who live after us,
don't be afraid of our loneliness,
our dented wiffle ball, the little kerf
the dog chewed in the orange frisbee.

Don't grieve for our kite; not the frayed string
that clings to your ankle, not the collapsed wing.

We lived on earth, we married, we touched each other
with our hands, with our hair that cannot feel
but that we felt luxuriously, and with promises.

We made these bike tracks in the sand
—don't follow them—and this calcined match head
is the last statue of our King.

We lived between Cygnus and Orion,
resenting the blurriness of the Pleiades,
in a house identical to its neighbors—
stepwise windows, ants never to be repelled,
TV like a window into the mind
that can't stop talking, redwood deck
facing the gulf.

Everything was covered with sand: the seams
of the white lace dress, the child's hinged cup,
the watch (even under the crystal), the legal papers.

We were like you, or tried to be. We divided our treasures
(a marble with no inside, a brooch from Siena),
signed our names with all our strength, and went home
in two directions, while the marriage continued
without us in the whirling voice of gulls.

 

LA in April is not like Paris in April, but it's pretty damn good.

This is like a little blog-type scrapbook of the last four days or so. Enjoy. Fun times.

How does this happen? HOW?????
There's some debate about at what point in the evening we should have realized that our "non-rager, just dinner and drinks with the girls" was going to turn into something that was more like the polar opposite of a "non-rager, just dinner and drinks with the girls." I originally thought that the moment of realization happened when we left the "calm" place where we were starting the night and went to a club. shimmy walked in and said, "It's sweaty in here. I like it."

shimmy, however, corrected me. The moment of realization really should have come five minutes after we walked into the place we were having dinner. It should have happened when, after the hostess took us to a lovely table in a quiet area where we could really have enjoyed a few cocktails, some tapas and some mellow conversations, we looked at her with confusion in our eyes and said, "But, but, we want that table. The one right by the bar."

Yep. We sure did start the night out looking pretty and made-up. With napkins on our laps and a discussion of the cheese plate and truffle oil. Making little hearts with our hands when we took photos. Not saying things that clearly foreshadowed where the evening was going. Not saying things like "My friend needs another cocktail so she can build up the courage to talk to that guy" or "Your boobs are like a magnet to Bob." No, look. In fact we look like well-behaved, sweet ladies in these pictures.




And then, no less than five hours later, we had somehow acquired a posse of boys to be our entourage and the scene had degenerated to this:






I don't know how it happens. I continue to believe we're capable of having mellow evenings. Just all photographic evidence seems to imply otherwise.

Things Friends Do For Friends
Friends will do three very important things for their friends.

Least Important but HOT: Friends will make their sexy face in .004 seconds flat as soon as a camera comes out to ensure good evening photos.


Of Importance ALWAYS: Friends will devise evil revenge plans with friends (JOKING - don't get stressed)


Of the MOST IMPORTANCE: Friends will make sure that friends don't have to spend their entire evening looking at unfortunate muffin top.


I missed the part where Shalom was THIS MUCH TALLER THAN ME
Maybe it's the power of persuasion, but you do feel peaceful around him, you know? Pookie, Shalom says to email him, you schmuck.


Five Haiku About Sunday Night

Three small girls should not
order this much food, beware
getting muffin top

I am embarrassed
to admit we did not wait
to use silverware

If those people do
not get up from OUR table
it will get ugly

Big Lots of fashion
brand names from hoochie stores, and
KALM KNOWS hoochie stores

Basic Rule of Life:
Never tell your own father
You teach blow job class.

Ruining the Illusions of Men Everywhere
shimmy and I had a sleepover on Sunday night. To encourage your fantasies, this sleepover did involve:

- us in our nighties
- red wine
- chocolate covered strawberries
- an inflatable bed

But you wanna know what we did? We watched Deadliest Catch. Yes, don't fool yourself. There were no pillow fights. There was no making out of any kind. Nobody tickled anybody. We watched men who smell like fish and don't shower or shave for days on end pulling huge crates of Alaskan King Crab up out of the ocean for HOURS. We said things like "There's not a lot of crab in that case. They'd better make up time." and "He just got hit by a huge chunk of ice! Watch out!" It wasn't hot. I know I got you thinking that this was hot with the nighties, red wine, strawberries and inflatable bed, but boys, we watched crab fishing all night. I'm just being honest.

Proof That Not EVERYBODY Breaks Up in the Spring
It was nice to spend some time with people who have known you since you were three feet tall, who have overcome amazing individual obstacles and who have fought all odds to build this amazing marriage. Thanks. Seriously. All we talked about all weekend with EVERYBODY was people leaving people. You were very inspiring. If you'd told me when I was sixteen and you were passed out in my bed between me and Melsa drooling on my pillow that you'd teach me lessons 16 years later, I would not have believed you. You'll get everything you want. Because you've learned how to make that happen.


Sometimes, You Only Wish You Had My Life
Though I can guarantee you that there was a huge part of Tuesday where you wouldn't have wanted my life. But two SUPER AWESOME things happened!

First, I got to take a ride-along in a pace car being driven at speed by Rocky Moran Jr. on the actual track for the Long Beach Grand Prix. And let me tell you, that was as awesome as it sounds. You SHOULD be jealous. That shit is ridiculous. And also, because there is always a story, you know, it went down like this.

The safety guy is strapping me into the car, and I see him adjusting the seat belt down really small, so I say to him, "That won't fit like that. I have really big hips." And he looks at me and makes a face like I don't know what I'm talking about. But, of course, when I go to get into the car, the seat belt is too small across my hips. And he looks at me, baffled, and says "Man, for a little, tiny thing, you sure do have big hips."

Thank you, sir.

Anyway, that would have been the highlight, except that end of the day, in what can only be described as a miracle of miracles, I GOT TO TAKE A RIDE-ALONG IN A DRIFT CAR AT SPEED ON THE TRACK!!!!!

Now, if you saw Fast and the Furious Three: Tokyo Drift, you already know what drift racing is. But in case you missed that gem, it's a race technique where, basically, instead of cornering around bends, you drive STRAIGHT AT THE WALL AT OVER A HUNDRED MILES AN HOUR and then, inches before you hit it, you force the car into a spin-out around the wall. And Ry and I are SO EXCITED to do a drive along. And I cannot tell you how amazing it was. The first time my driver headed to the wall at 120mph+, I honestly thought "What am I doing? It's actually entirely possible that this car will crash and I will die or be seriously injured. That could actually happen."

But that thought soon went away with the rush of adrenaline. IT WAS SO AWESOME.

As I'm being strapped into the car: "This driver doesn't speak a single word of English, so if you get scared and want him to stop drifting and just drive the course, he won't know what you're saying."

AWESOME.

 

Phone Update

So, I have a horrid, cheap temp phone in my hands until I can get back to Vegas and get my warranty processed. My SIM card isn't transferred. Feel free to call, but don't expect great reception. And if you left me a voicemail or text after 10am on Sunday, I never got it. I'm not ignoring you. I just really didn't get your message.

I feel retardly flattered at how many people just showed up at the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf over the course of the day yesterday. Retardedly. I have the greatest friends in the world, which is why I can easily let go of the fact that somebody hated me enough to trash my life like that. If, on every weekend, I could go sit in a coffee shop and just talk all day long with people I adore, how happy would I be?

LA has been just what I needed. I can't wait to really tell you all about it!

 

And so if you want to visit...

"No, I'll totally call you on Sunday!" I said to, like, six people.

Until I woke up today and the keypad on my razr won't work, and a web search reveals that there's nothing I can do but replace the phone. And I can't take time to run to a Cingular store right now because I actually have to work. But I"m here:

The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf on Santa Monica & Second until around 5

Go on and visit if you read this. I SWEAR TO GOD I WASN'T GOING TO FLAKE ON CALLING YOU.

 

Four Hours Into My Future: Otherwise Known as Tyler

As shimmy says, it really writes itself.

Thank you to the two girls who did not need distraction for babysitting the two of us who did so very well. Thank you to all my favorite girlies for giving me a new anchor about Tyler and dancing and Asian Pears and the drunkest pick up lines ever to replace my old anchor for Manhattan Beach, which needs to be trashed.

Thank you for Tyler for leading the rally for one more hour of dancing somewhere. And for the drink. And the cute smile. And the fun on the dance floor. And the picture shimmy and shadalan and KALM took that you don't even know about.

And there will be pictures later, but here's my favorite story of the night. The night of the "non-rager" in Manhattan Beach. Which as you can see from the time did not so much exist as a non-rager.

Drunk, DRUNK Man Picking Up on Us
LADIES!

Shimmy
What brings you out tonight?

Drunk, DRUNK Man Picking Up on Us
You do!

And then...later....so good...

Drunk, DRUNK Man Picking Up on Us
I only go on one speed.

KALM
But what if you have to pee?

Drunk, DRUNK Man Picking Up onUs
I'd go in you!

Yes, people. L.A. isn't really that much different from Vegas. You can make that party happen anywhere, and I'll tell you all about it later with more stories and photos.