Right, I know I said Friday, but I really didn't get around to finishing this until this morning.
So, St. Patrick's Day.
(Is that going to be funny every time when I put "St. Patrick's Day" in bolded green font?)
St. Patrick's Day was supposed to be mellow. There was a plan. The plan was that K-Rock, Hott Scott and I were going to run Six Tunnels and then we were going to go see Flogging Molly at the House of Blues that night, have a few cocktails and then turn in. That was the plan. Mellow, more or less. Nobody (by which I mean me specifically, but might mean others) has been in a mood for a rager here in a while. And honestly, I'm okay with that.
Six Tunnels was delightful. Hott Scott insists that we show up at the crack of dawn, which turns out to be not necessary but nice nonetheless because you can see some special sights in an off-strip casino at 6:00am. The run is beautiful, the weather is beautiful, it's a great way to start the day.
Things begin to go wrong right after that. To begin with, I don't get a chance to nap at all between awaking at 5:00am to run and meeting up for pre-Flogging Molly drinks at 5 or 6pm or whatever time we met up. I intended to nap, but I had a bunch of errands to run and it didn't quite work out that way. So I'm already exhausted by the time we hook up at the classy, classy Mermaid Bar at Mandalay Bay in the early evening.
It's fight night at the Mandalay, which means that the crowd is a mix of frat boys who never quit being frat boys ... and Mexicans. And then there are a bunch of hipsters and punks and aged-out punks and Irish nationalists running around for the Flogging Molly show. I was sure there was going to be a race riot, or more accurately a social-class riot, but in the name of St. Patrick everybody seemed to get along just fine.
So, the show. Firstly, the show begins with the single most awesome opening act you will ever see - The Cherry Cokes. Apparently, Irish punk is all the rage in Japan, and so there are now a series of Japaness bands that play Irish punk. I'm not making this up, and also I almost enjoyed this band more than I enjoyed FM. They were brilliant in a completely non-logical way. Enjoy.
And then we meet Teddy.
Teddy is everything you hate about people who answer the question "Where are you from?" with the answer "I'm from Seattle, but me and my band moved down to LA. And then we broke up."
Firstly, let's talk about Teddy's form of introduction. Scottie has wandered off, and K-Rock and I are chilling at the bar when I sense that somebody, somewhere, is WAY too far into my personal space. I turn, and there is Teddy, standing silently and stalkerishly about half an inch from my body. Teddy also looks like everything you would expect from somebody who answers the question "Where are you from?" with the answer "I'm from Seattle, but me and my band moved down to LA. And then we broke up." He has on the obligatory hipster striped Sesame Street reminiscent shirt, the shaggy but still sculpted hair and the kind of "dead behind the eyes but not quite" stare.
Teddy wants FRIENDS. OMG TEDDY WANTS FRIENDS. And Teddy is going to get friends using the most tried and true method of obtaining friends: Round after round of Washington Apple shots. I am having one of those nights where I am immune to alcohol (unlike Friday night of this week, where I had four cocktails over four hours and have now been violently ill for two days), but Teddy is not having one of those nights where he is immune to alcohol, and he gets progressively drunker and drunker.
Now, anybody who knows me knows that I am and have been for a while now a tad bit irrationally hung up on a boy, and Teddy is about the polar opposite of K-Rock's kind of thing, but it's St. Patrick's Day and we're out and about and so we're enjoying the company of our fake, hipster, shared boyfriend, Teddy. That is until Scott comes back. Scott will steal your date straight out from under you at any time in any place. And he turns to Teddy and asks him about what kind of music he plays, and Teddy is gone to K-Rock and I. Hott Scott has stolen our boyfriend, and frankly I'm still a little pissed off about it. Teddy LOVES Hott Scott and his interest in his music and decides to celebrate by buying another round of Washington Apple shots.
And then Teddy is obliterated. He begins obliterated by sidling up to me and saying, "I think you're really pretty and I want us to be best friends forever."
"Really," I say, "Would you still want us to be best friends forever if I were forty pounds overweight and played the washboard in a band for a living?"
Teddy, in fairness, actually takes a solid minute to think about this. And then he says, "No."
At which point, I was going to entertain him and talk to him anyway because at least he was honest, but the band got good and I wanted to listen. And so Teddy moves on to K-Rock and her luscious boobs. And, well, that doesn't go so well because Teddy is so drawn in by the voluptuousness of K-Rock's boobs that he can't help but to reach out and grab them, at which point Hott Scott can't help but to reach out and grab Teddy. And so, Hipster Teddy and his Hipster Ways are forced to exit the night under the heavy hand of the punk rock version of Hott Scott. And what have we learned? You don't grab women's boobs at an Irish punk show unless said women are too drunk to know better and/or don't have their ripped up runner bodyguards with them.
After the show, we head over to the bar at Fleur de Lys to meet up with Al and Sue, who are finishing up dinner. We sit in the bar, having more drinks and truffle popcorn and watching the rowed up testosterone lovers exit the fight. And then Al and Sue join us for drinks and popcorn and then Al says, "I'm a VIP Gold member at the Penthouse Club. Wanna head over there?"
Because what St. Patrick's Day is complete unless you end it with some naked boob hanging over your table and a free bottle of vodka? Screw you and your green beer and leprechaun chicks. We want Stoli and some girl whose resume says "Dancer" and who carries a little purse onto stage with her to put her thong in when it comes off.
It was a good St. Patrick's Day. If I see Teddy's band around, I'll go to a show. There'll probably even be a song called "Washington Apple" in which he laments not having been able to fully realize the passionate love of K-Rocks breasts.
I am on what Red Delicious likes to refer to as negative time right now, which, you know, means that I'm really, really busy. Though, in fairness, I do get to work while watching the tournament games in the office, so that's good. However, instead of taking the time to write anything, I'm just transcribing other funny people's funny stuff that they said to me. Enjoy.
Joe It's surprisingly good. Fine print says it's a Syrah and Cab blend. You should check it out.
Me Is it cheap enough to support my alcoholic tendencies?
Joe It's cheap enough to support mine.
2. More Robin Thicke
Ferris Things Robin Thicke will do with you: 1. Roll with you. 2. Hold with you. 3. Stay warm and get out of the cold with you.
3. More Melissa Etheridge
Hott Scott I was behind you while you were running at the gym today and I just kept thinking "Damn, I really hate Melissa Etheridge."
Me Cause I think "Come to My Window" was on my playlist twice.
Hott Scott So stalkerish. Like reverse stalkology. I mean, I sneak up to look in some girl's window and she's already there. Waiting. "Now who's the stalker?" she'll say in her head as she sings "Come to My Window" It's a game of chess, and I won't have it. I prefer good, old-fashioned voyeurism. Oh, I'll come to your window the second you fall asleep. They all fall asleep sometime.
I bet the witch in Hansel and Gretel was singing that all slow and evil with an Appalachian kind of accent while she watched the children approach the house.
Me Dear God. I wonder what goes on in your head when you're NOT texting me.
Hott Scott It's my crooked little house.
4. Twitch
Boom What are you doing home?
Me i came home to put on my easter clothes and bake the single most delicious thing in the world to take for dessert.
if you were here, i could bake and you could lick my bowl! whew! inappropriate innuendo humor for easter!
Boom are you going to dress up like a bunny ?
Me i totally have a slutty bunny outfit left over from some gay easter gala years and years ago. it has a little cotton tail and everything. i'm sure jesus thought it was an appropriate tribute when i wore it through the castro
Boom does your nose twitch?
Me if it's my nose that's twitching, you're in the wrong spot.
It addition to just the concept....brilliant...it's on LIFETIME, it's hosted by Ian Ziering and judged by Chris Judd AND somebody named Vitamin C. I feel like we're probably missing out.
Though, you know, I do have the next four Africa entries ready to go over the next four days.
It was a stressful week. I mean, one could certainly say that it was a stressful week because I'm impacting positive change in my life. That didn't remove the stress. And then the weekend, wow. I hurt today. Physically hurt. Yes, it was that bad. It can really be told in three chapters.
Chapter One: Fortunately, I am not pregnant. Friday, I was approaching two weeks late. (Yes, I know, you will read this when you get back and say, "You totally told me before I left that we didn't need to worry." It's true. I said that. I just wanted you to have a clear mind while you were on your trip.). Anyway, normally in that situation, I would have just said, "Travel. Super high levels of stress. Late is normal." But there was a small margin of error going on, and so I was worried. And so, on Friday, I wanted to know if I could drink over the weekend with a clear conscious or not. Later, we will realize that I should have just stayed worried and not been drinking, but who knew. So I picked up an EPT test on the way home from work. The very act of buying that test seemed to spur my body into action a couple of hours later, but before that, I did take the test.
I am thirty-three years old.
When I took the test, my two nieces were at my place. One of them is twenty-one years old. One of them is twenty-four years old.
Me (reading directions that make the act of peeing on a stick seem like brain science level challenge) This is a lot more confusing than I though. I've never taken one of these tests before.
BOTH Nieces Oh! I have! Let me explain it to you.
There's so much wrong with what I just described.
I still love them even if they're apparently, ahem, more active than I would like.
Chapter Two: Hott Scott Joins an Exclusive Club This was the conversation on Friday.
Hott Scott I kind of want to keep it mellow tonight. How about we call K-rock and have A-train and Latchkey hang out around nine and we just open a couple of bottles of wine and then call it a night around midnight?
Me That sounds perfect. I had a week from hell, and I have to go out on a rager on Saturday night, so I'd super like to keep it mellow tonight.
And see, that's how the plans laid out. A mellow night of just drinking some wine with some friends and being home around midnight for a full night of sleep and a productive day the next day.
And four hours later, Hott Scott joined a very special club. It's a club with a small membership, but unfortunately not as exclusive as it should be. It's the official "I Have Put Jocelyn to Sleep on my Bathroom Floor" club.
Here's how this played out: After holding my hair for an hour while I threw up, Hott Scott let me lay down against the cool tile of the bathroom floor and pass out for a while. Then he came back.
Hott Scott Jocelyn, will you get up off the floor and go to bed on the couch or one of the extra beds?
Me (Insert about a full minute of moaning.) Nooooooooo. (Insert more moaning)
Hot Scott Do you want to just sleep here on the bathroom floor?
Me (Insert about a full minute of moaning.) Yeeeesssss. (Insert more moaning)
And in the morning, I woke up with a blanket and a pillow and a neck ache from sleeping on the bathroom floor. You know what Hott Scott is? He's awesome for taking care of my drunk ass.
To be honest, I'm not even sure how it happened. I had four, maybe five, glasses of wine over a three or four hour period. I mean, that's a lie. Not a lie about the fact that I didn't drink all that much, but a lie about how I don't know how I ended up that drunk. I had neglected to eat most of the day. I'd had, like, two rice cakes at 2pm and that was it. That's how I ended up spending the night on the bathroom floor.
Chapter Three: And then there was Saturday night... Yes. Sigh.
Honestly, you may just want to look at the pictures from Saturday night. That's a better way to tell the story. Click here to see the full set.
Not only was Saturday night Jess's bachelorette party, but also as I may have mentioned all three nieces plus a bunch of their friends were in town for a birthday party. So the plan was that we'd do Jess's bachelorette and then all meet up at Ghostbar late night.
Here are some highlights.
We started at Voodoo with a Witch Doctor and some steak.
We went to Chippendales for Jess's birthday. Yes, we did. And we all rolled our eyes about how much we're not going to dig this. And then...we were wrong. We were not only entertained, we were all oddly turned on. And I have a total crush on Bryan Cheatham. We all agreed that the best scene in the entire show is the "art scene" in which there is an unexplained bed, chaise lounge and motorcycle on stage and three separate solos about the sadness of being alone going on. I may not have laughed so hard in years. In between stripping, the men just look hearbroken. I recommend. I strongly recommend. That is all. So.good.
After the show, the entertaining, fantastic show that I want to see again, we headed to Moon. Where I will leave it at "We got our drink on. We got our dance on."
And then, the explosion of ghetto hit us at Ghostbar and the party turned up even more, and I can't even think about it, really.
And then I got home at 5 and the nieces were at least an hour later than I was. Rough. I have big black spots of memory. Literally.
Okay, and so I had dreams of going to LA next weekend, but today I was brutally brought to the realization that I went to Africa, and came back and pretty much had houseguests every weekend and went through a traumatic job transition and had a bad pregnancy scare and I'm just exhausted and I need a weekend of Zelda and tea and quiet. So that is what I will do next weekend.
I am diligently working on blogging about the weekend, but in the meantime, I will share with you the best text message exchange of the last decade. Creative props to Hott Scott for his half of this material.
Hott Scott: A man approx 7'4" running sub 6 after sub 6. Making me look like a jogger because of his God given physique. I feel like Saliare to his Mozart and pray he dies. My gym. MY GYM.
Me I just laughed until I had minor bladder failure.
Hott Scott If God won't make me faster, I can only pray he kills those who are. Or makes me a unicorn, cause then...Fuck it, right? I'm a unicorn.
Me Then you would be fast AND magical.
And also, I would name you Sir High Gallops and buy you a golden saddle and make you my special pet.
Hott Scott Freud saw that text you know.
Though I am making a Sir High Gallops t-shirt now.
Me Faster, Sir High Gallops, faster! There are rolling hills and clear reflecting pools ahead. Lead the way with your prominent horn! Onward!
Yes, we really do write texts that are that detailed. We're dorks.
Let's Go Have Breakfast at a Snotty French Patissiere in the Bellagio Recommended by a Gay Male Escort
Which is how shamus and I spent our Sunday morning. But there was lots before that, too.
"The fun" started on Friday evening. After a run to Sephora, we went to dinner at Michael Mina. shamus didn't think that it was funny when I turned to him in mock horror as we entered the restaurant and said, "I can't believe you left your wife-beater" at home. It would have been perfect to wear here."
There are the usual shamus challenges with the menu. I eat more foie gras than any person should have in any one sitting. We essentially force them to set up a wine tasting for us like we're something special. We REALLY like the water and send an email off of my phone to remind ourselves of the name so we can track it down (because it's a snotty import called Llanllyr Source). It's nice. If I had endless cash and a super fast metabolism, I'd have that kind of meal before going drinking every night that I went drinking.
We have some goofy gays take some goofy pictures of us in the goofy Bellagio floral display for the Fourth of July. Here's a sampling.
Me to the gay taking this picture, "This dress makes me look like a bubble." The gay to me, "A bubble of perfect!"
So crazy! shamus with the fake lemonade stand!
It's not time to head to Caramel yet, so we decide to have a drink in the Baccarat Bar. This bar, which xtine and I like to refer to as the bar where the youngins seem to hang out. In fact, I may be able to summarize what happens next with this exchange.
1. I text xtine a picture of the couch featured in just about all of these photos and the message "Your favorite couch in Vegas misses you."
2. She texts back "Tell it I miss it too. At least it seems as though there are no 23 year olds attached to it this time."
3. I text her back this picture and this message: "Actually, there are two 23 year old Aussies attached to it."
Because this is what happened. When shamus and I walked into the Baccarat Bar, there were no open seats. There were a couple of Gays we were going to go introduce ourselves to and go sit with, but then it looked like the two young gents above were leaving. It turns out that they were only cashing out because their waitress was leaving, but when I asked them that, they insisted that even though they weren't leaving, shamus and I should have a seat. They were fine. The one was freakishly tall (six foot seven, yo). We got to hear all about Australia. They thought shamus and I were related, which is cute. They were fine, but we were ready to be done with them by the time it was time to go. However, important later, I stupidly say, "Yeah, well, if you don't love Pure, and most people don't once they're actually in, we'll be at Caramel if you want to stop by." I surely did.
And then our people all show up and we all head over to Caramel. I will tell you know that you can see ALL of the pictures from that evening here. There are at least three of them where the caption just reads "This is me showing you how to be classy in a club." Enjoy. I've included some of my favorites below though.
Mindy is our server at Caramel. She loves her own name. She also loves Scottie. See how much Mindy and her pale-face love Scottie? Yep. That's love.
There are some highlights. For the record, those highlights don't include me drinking vodak out of the bottle. It also doesn't include when I porno-ed my ass into the air or tried to hump shamus' shoulder. Highlights would include when Sean did those same things after I did. Ha.
One highlight was the dancing man. He was dancing in the middle of the club, if by "dancing" you meant seductively rubbing up and down against the table. GROSS. There was also the hooker, and outside of the stimulating conversation with Mindy, she was the highlight. She was amazing. First, the guy that this African Queen hooker was with was AN EIGHT FOOT TALL WHITE MAN. Secondly, she had on a hot dress, hot jewelry and FLIP FLOPS. Somehow, she managed to grind with dignity against her trick even in flip flops.
But the best hooker story was the one Mindy told us about our African Queen friend. So, you know, the first thing that happens when you get table service is that somebody takes away the lids to all of the bottles that you bought because you're not supposed to leave with them. Our friend the hooker? Ballsy enough to ASK FOR THE LID TO THE BOTTLE OF PATRON so that she could leave with it. Despite her flip flops and line of work, I had expected more of her.
And there we are, enjoying our evening, when suddenly the Aussies join us. And the first thing out of shamus' mouth to me? "Dude, that guy thinks he's about to get laaaaid." Sure, he probably did. Which is why it suddenly got so awkward. I handled this by drinking more vodak and acting like a fool to deflect.
Oh, whatever. Here are corresponding pictures of Sean and I going ass-up in the club to show you how classy we are. Or perhaps you've already caught this delight on MySpace.
It was a good night. I love my friends.
On Saturday, after I surgically removed Redford from shamus, we went to see Oceans 13, which I loved, but George Clooney on any screen wells feelings of love in me. We were going to just grab some food and head home for napping time, but then shamus decided he wanted to SHOP. By SHOP we mean go to the Forum Shops at Caesar's.
Ask yourself, how much is too much to pay for a jacket made of the leather of baby goats? Once you have a number in your head, email me and I'll tell you how much you'll actually pay for that. For that matter, consider how much is too much to pay for a pair of rhinestone accented sunglasses from Coach. This is the game we played. That jacket is HOT though.
And then we had dinner and went to Fremont Street. AND I HAVE SOMETHING THAT HAS MADE ME SO HAPPY. It's a picture of shamus with a half-yard of liquor on Fremont Street. Like heaven delivered.
I ALSO HAVE A PICTURE OF SHAMUS OUTSIDE OF A STRIP CLUB THAT WAS REALLY PROUD THAT THEY HAD 45 DANCERS ON STAFF THAT NIGHT!!!!
Right? Perfect.
I mean, admittedly we made an error. And that error was half-yards of frozen liquor in 110 degree heat. We did not love how we felt. We loved it even less as we became part of this crowd. And this crowd are homeless folks enjoying the free outdoor concert from the eighties metal cover band. I'm not making that up.
Yep. So we went to the Griffin, had some drinks, shamus and his GAY outfit got introduced to an incredibly sweet boy and I was happy that they got along. And shamus broke the ice with that boy by telling the story about the time McK came to visit me in San Francisco and got human feces all over his leather chaps when we took him to My Place. Ice breaker!
We slept well. In the morning, we were going to go to the Coffee Bean, but instead decided that, on the advice of a gay male escort (I mean, Jesus, can we ever tell a story that doesn't involve the invocation of a gay male escort?), we went instead to Jean-Philippe. I mean, why go two minutes to the Coffee Bean when you can drive to the strip instead and eat French pastry. And eat I did: a brioche, a Napeolean AND a crepe. shamus couldn't really eat anything, but he said the pastry was good. Here are two pictures of our sunny, sunny morning.
That's a cute picture of me, right? Yet I got this text from C-Woo first thing on Monday morning, "I'm so glad to be greeted on Monday with a fresh picture of your ass on MySpace."
I miss him, and his gay ass vintage jeans, and his shopping enabling, and his bonding with Redford, and his bougie, bougie ways already. Tear.
And for the record, the picture below is my favorite of the night. Both because, well, that's shamus and I when we're out -- those faces, that silliness-- and also because Hott Scott is there in the background with that whole "I'm not participating" face. Ha.
Friday Five! By which I mean Friday 10 on the 13th
Because just because I didn't have time to post last week, it doesn't mean that there weren't all kinds of random things I wanted to drop on you. Here's how this is working. I do one item, then I go and clean a patch of carpet because shamus gets here in two hours and I'm trying to reduce cat hair.
1.Speaking of shamus: We are doing what I like to call "Rich Man/Poor Girl Weekend," in which on Friday we eat at Michael Mina and have a VIP table at Caramel with Hott Scott and Sean and Saturday we see a movie at Sam's Town and then go drinking on Fremont Street. It will be perfect. IT HAD BETTER BE PERFECT.
2.Wanna know what else is perfect? My travel schedule for the rest of the year. In August it's a trip to Denver to see K-Yo and then the Whitney Summit. In September/October it's Uganda. In November the Woodalls and select Jocelyn friends and I are taking the kids to NYC to see the Macy's Day parade and other spectacles for Thanksgiving. In December it's home to magical PA for Christmas and then on to Tuscon for margaritas and Parkers. Perfect.
3. Dear Men of Match.com: Here are some more free pointers from me.
a. Chances are, dating you is not my top priority. Not to sound snotty, but it's not like I'm having a hard time finding dates. If you email me, I'm probably not going to jump off my chair and say "I HAVE TO EMAIL HIM RIGHT NOW." Unless you are Leonardo DiCaprio. Chances are, in a couple of days when I have some free time, unless your Match handle is "Welcome2MyNitemare", I'll at least respond. THAT IS UNLESS YOU GO CREEPO ON ME BEFORE I EVEN HAVE A CHANCE TO AND SEND ME AN EMAIL EVERY DAY FOR A WEEK ASKING IF I GOT YOUR LAST EMAIL. Dude, seriously, come on now.
b. Here's another free tip. Let's say you're local and you may have seen me out at the Venetian one night and then come across my profile on Match. IT IS THEN CREEPY IF THE FIRST EMAIL YOU SEND ME IS ASKING ME IF I WAS THE PRETTY GIRL YOU SAW AT THE VENETIAN AND THEN DESCRIBING WHAT I WAS WEARING THAT NIGHT. Don't expect a response back to that freako. We have Craigslist for that if you want to go there.
c. And finally, on that should be so obvious that I'm not sure why I have to point it out. Don't use pictures in your profile of you and your ex. That's just going to make me think that you haven't cleaned up that situation yet. You and your dog? That's good. You and your ex? That's not good.
4.Speaking of Boys: Uh, wanna hear a freaky accurate assessment of me from somebody who barely knows me?
"You're an over achiever. You like to work, you like the sense of a job well done. You are a mother (ing) type. You love the little rascal in a boy, but you don't want to be a man in the relationship. You are a submissive woman (so to speak, pull my hair and show me who's the boss kind of gal). But mostly you're afraid of the unknown,,, marriage, kids sex with the same guy over and over..."
And the childrens all nod and say "Yep."
5. Also Speaking of Boys: And that word is being used intentionally, I sent what has to be the ugliest, cruelest email I've ever sent in my life this week. But the saddest part is, there wasn't really anything in there (or very little) that I don't believe to be true about the person I was sending it to. For about an hour after I sent it, I was actually a little embarrassed that I did. I mean, I was like, "Man, I am the kind of person who can say those things - and I know EXACTLY how bad those things are going to make that person feel." But then afterwards, I thought about it and was like, "No, this is a man who lies to women, many women, over and over again. And for no reason other than that's he's selfish emotionally. I don't feel bad about calling that behavior at all, especially since I've been enabling it for the last two months or so." And then I bounced back and forth a couple of times and felt bad about some of the horrible things I said and then felt like I'd had a right to say them. And in the end, if nothing else, the action got my head unbent where previously it had been bent. Okay, really what happened was a strong woman and an incredibly sweet man reminded me that I had every right to say those things, and then I felt better.
7.G-Mail Chat Status Indicator Poetry: (I Love) Paul Jack and (I Also Love) Dex and I have been playing a word association game with our Gmail Chat status indicators all week, and if you put it all together, it almost reads like a poem:
big time small time no time timeless wordless soulless mindless speechless speech is overrated speech is rated r pandemonium is rated r pandemonium is rated wow my boobs are rated wow pandora's boobs are rated AWESOME i have no boobs to rate boobless boob time is back it's 5:00pm - boob time
8. See, I knew 10 would be a stretch. Here we are at 8 and I have three spots to fill but only two real things to talk about. How about we do one featured photo and then the last two hot items? Here:
So this is actually one of my favorite shots from home. It's my mom's yard. Lawn birds. Yep.
9. A Wish for You and Shoes: In case you were one of the two people who didn't hear my shoe story from today. In which case I don't have your email and you should correct that. Or you are a man. But anyway, I digress. So today I had a couple high stress things going on at work and I started to feel a little run down, so I decided to cope with that by running to Designer Shoe Warehouse to buy what I thought would be a $100 pair of ballet flats to wear with this dress that I bought to wear to the aforementioned Michael Mina/Caramel spectacular on Friday. But DSW was having a massive sale! And for just $33 I walked out of there with FOUR pairs of ballet flats! FOUR! And what I wish for all for you for the weekend is a little unexpected happiness like DSW delivered for me today.
10. Friday Remix! Is back! Five songs for Friday! Playlist and everything. Here we go!
"Scrubs" from TLC: Last week (or really two weeks ago), I was all like "Unpretty is the best TLC song EVER." But really we all know that the best TLC song EVER was Scrubs. Remember how you and your friends would all sing that song over and over when it first came out? You know that you did. Don't front. And it still speaks to me. Enjoy. Catch the lyrics here if you want.
"Jet Lag" from Joss Stone: This song is so freakin' sexy. And I've been on a Joss Stone kick lately. Kick the lyrics here. Hawt.
"More than Anyone" from Gavin Degraw: I really have never felt that this was his best album track, but I do think it's one of his best live tracks. And this is a live version. Maybe his best live track. It's so lovely to listen to. I give you no lyrics link because the lyrics aren't all that special.
"Four in the Morning" from Gwen Stefani: You can hate me later for closing out this week's playlist with Gwen Stefani and Fergie, but I can't stop listening to both of these songs. Shut up.
"Big Girls Don't Cry" from Fergie: No, I am actually embarrassed about these songs on my playlist. I am. But yet here they are. I enjoy these lyrics, too.
My Stalker is More Health Conscious Than Your Stalker
At some point in her life, every girl picks up a stalker. You know, a vaguely disturbing, often very attractive man who will come into her home when she's not there and leave messages written in creepy black crayon on her wall. Every girl has this at some point, or so Lifetime television tells me.
I went out Saturday night and did not arrive home until 5:30am Sunday morning. Though I arrived home to a clean home, which I was not expecting and for which I am thankful. I fell asleep without looking around because, well, 5:30am. The next morning, having finally awoken, I'm leisurely looking around my room trying to get focused when, all of a sudden, just like in the movies, I bolt and sit upright in bed. "Holy hell, what is that creepy message scrawled in black crayon on the wall of my bedroom? Holy hell!"
Some stalkers, when they leave you a message leave things like this: "I have your panties." "You're very pretty when you sleep." "I can find you anywhere."
My stalker leaves this:
Yes. Thank you, Hott Scott. Already, this morning, as I was pondering whether to work out or watch season two of 90210, this new disturbing addition to my home motivated me to put some Asics on and get going. I probably don't say this to you enough, but you're one of the best people ever. I would eat sushi, or run next to you on a treadmill, or watch as beer bottles get thrown at your crotch or spray out the temple with you any time.
What's awesome about that is how many people will read that last euphemism about spraying out the temple and think that it is something much different (and much less disgusting) than it is.
I'm not even going to ask for my extra key back because I kind of suspect there's more crayoning of my walls that can happen in the future. Ha.
And also, while I'm at it, here's a copy of our prom picture from Friday night. I was bummed that I had no wrist corsage.
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.
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.
The last time I was out with Hott Scott, I got this gem of wisdom about how my attention span is too short for relationships. And he had a point. And I resented that he had a point.
So we went out Friday night, and I got this sterling rhetoric that we can all now bank on.
"Jocelyn, you're like the David Koresh of emotional indictment. You've got the compound built up, there's ammo in the basement and you're like 'I will BURN THIS SHIT TO THE GROUND IF THIS DOES NOT WORK OUT.' "
I picked up the tab. It was the cheapest two hours of therapy I've had since November.
This is how we roll. It's F.A.S.H.I.O.N.
More pictures of the weekend's activities just added at myspace. Rock out.
Madonna Tribute - Cast of Glee
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